


death is just so full (and man so small)

by alinaandalion



Series: after the storm [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 09:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alinaandalion/pseuds/alinaandalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when Emma turns to look at Henry in the backseat of Regina’s car and sees how hard he’s trying to keep from crying, his hands shaking on the pages on his comic book, and Regina driving too fast, jaw clenched and tears shining in her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death is just so full (and man so small)

**Author's Note:**

> Just assume that the second half of Season 2 never happened. Also, I stole the title from the lyrics for "After the Storm" by Mumford and Sons, which is basically the soundtrack for this entire fic.

_“I want everything back, the way it was.  But there is no point to it, this wanting.”_  
 _\- The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood_  
  
 _“Because memories fall apart, too.  And then you’re left with nothing, left not even with a ghost but its shadow.”_  
 _\- Looking for Alaska by John Green_

 

  
  
It starts with headaches and worry and a trip to the emergency room.  
  
It starts with scans and words Emma doesn’t understand.  
  
It starts with Whale saying things like _tumor_ and _specialist_ and _time_.  
  
It starts when Emma turns to look at Henry in the backseat of Regina’s car and sees how hard he’s trying to keep from crying, his hands shaking on the pages on his comic book, and Regina driving too fast, jaw clenched and tears shining in her eyes.  
  
It all starts here.  But it’s not a beginning.  
  
*****  
  
David and Mary Margaret are waiting for her when she shows up at the apartment, bone-weary and voice raw from when she hid in the hospital bathroom and screamed into her wadded-up coat.  
  
They look at her, expectant, and she can see the hope on their faces, thinks of fucking happy endings and how stupid they all are.  Emma can’t say it.  She can’t, she can’t, she _can’t_ , because then it will be true, and _goddamnit_ , she won’t let it be true because this is losing _everything._  
  
“Emma?” Mary Margaret says quietly, eyebrows drawing together as she steps forward and places a gentle hand on Emma’s shoulder.  
  
“It’s cancer,” Emma whispers, and the tears start then, her knees giving out.  She collapses into Mary Margaret’s arms, pulling them both to the ground as David runs over.  Now she can’t stop talking at all.  “It’s fucking _cancer_ , and the doctor said that—that it’s inoperable because of how it’s growing in his brain, and, and—”  
  
She sobs, fucking _wails_ , and Mary Margaret just holds her tighter, and Emma can’t move, can’t breathe.  She can only see Henry’s pale face, the shadows under his eyes, the pictures of the deadly mass growing in his brain, and no, no, no, _this can’t happen_ , but it is.  It is, and it will, and this is something she can’t fix, can’t fight with swords or guns or anything she understands.  
  
*****  
  
Regina looks up, a glass of something dark clutched in her hands.  “Neal called.”  
  
Emma lets out the long breath she’d been holding in and moves into the dimly-lit study.  “Did you tell him?”  
  
“Yes.  He wasn’t pleased that I was the one to tell him instead of you, but I didn’t know when you would be available to talk to him,” Regina says as she pours Emma a drink out of a fancy crystal decanter.  She holds the glass out to Emma.  “You didn’t exactly specify when you would be done with your parents.  Or if you were intending to accept my offer to stay here, for that matter.”  
  
“Sorry,” Emma mutters, taking the glass from Regina and gulping some of the drink down.  It burns on its way down her throat and up into her nose; bourbon, then.  “I’m still not sure if me staying here is the best idea.  But with Henry—we don’t exactly have a place to live right now, and I don’t want…”  
  
Swallowing down the rest of her bourbon, Regina takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring a little.  “I’m sure you can find an apartment for the two of you somewhere in Storybrooke.  Maybe Neal can even move in.”  
  
Emma bites the inside of her cheek and watches Regina pour a fresh drink, straight to the glass’s brim, her hands shaking and eyes red-rimmed; putting her drink down on Regina’s desk, Emma bows her head and wraps her arms tight around herself.  
  
“I can’t do this by myself,” she says softly, her voice cracking as she blinks furiously against welling tears.  “This isn’t going to be easy, and I can’t—Neal won’t be much help.  He just doesn’t know how.  And Henry is going to need you.  I just don’t think that I can do this without you.”  
  
Regina shakes her head, a sad smile on her face.  “You don’t need to stay here for me to help you.  You know that.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Regina stares at her until Emma finishes off her drink just to have something to do, which happens a lot more often around Regina than anyone else.  On a different day, that might be something that would bother her.  Right now, Emma is wondering how much of a bad mother she is for wanting to drink until she just passes out.  
  
Regina plucks the empty glass from Emma’s hand and fills it again, handing it back without saying a word.  Then she walks around the desk and flips through some manila folders filled with information on treatment plans that only talk about time in a matter of months, not years, not a _life_.  
  
It’s only about buying time, not winning at all, and Emma wants to burn those files and fix this.  She’s the goddamn _Savior_.  She is supposed to _save_ people, and now she’s being told to just stand by and watch her son die.  
  
Emma gulps the bourbon down because the only other option feels like stopping breathing altogether.  Not now.  She has to hold it together because Regina is still standing there with a straight spine and even voice, talking about deciding on a plan and moving forward and how keeping things as normal as possible is the best thing they can do for Henry right now.  
  
 _And what about us?_ Emma wants to scream at her.  _What about you?  What about me?  How are we supposed to live like nothing has changed, when the entire world is fucking falling apart and we’re told to grin and bear it?_  
  
“I prepared the guest room for you,” Regina tells her, still talking in that soft, even tone Emma has only ever heard her use with Henry.  “We can discuss more permanent arrangements tomorrow, but since Henry has already gone to bed, I thought you might prefer to stay close by.”  
  
The world has taken on that slight blur that comes with just one drink too many, and Emma’s eyes sting as she tries to force a smile onto her face.  
  
“Yeah, um, thanks.”  
  
She starts to leave, figuring she’ll stumble up the stairs and find the guest room through trial and error, but Regina _moves_ and then she has her hands on Emma’s shoulders.  
  
“We’re going to make it through this,” Regina says in an urgent whisper.  “Don’t give up, Emma.  Don’t you dare.”  
  
Emma sways on her feet, and she wants to believe Regina, wants to bury herself deep in that promise and _believe_ , but from the way Regina’s fingers dig into her shoulders, nails almost sinking through thin fabric and skin, and how Regina’s face is filled with steely resolve but her eyes are wide and dark and desperate, Regina doesn’t believe what she’s saying, either.  This is just a way to keep from doing this _alone_ , and that is something Emma can give her.  
  
“Don’t worry about it.”  Emma can taste the bitterness in the back of her mouth and swallows hard around it.  “I’m the _Savior_.”  
  
Regina laughs then, a choked, broken sound, and she releases Emma; Emma misses the contact almost immediately, but she shrugs her shoulders and reaches for her empty glass.  
  
She holds it out, and Regina fills it again with a grim smile.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Mary Margaret watches quietly as Emma packs two suitcases.  One for Henry, one for herself.  She manages to avoid looking Mary Margaret in the eye for the most part, and that makes it easier.  Easier to pretend that it isn’t a permanent change, that things will eventually go back to the way they were before.  
  
But even when Emma thinks about _before_ , she isn’t sure which one she wants to go back to.  She’s had so many fresh beginnings in the past year that it nearly puts her on her ass as she folds up Henry’s shirts that smell of Mary Margaret’s laundry detergent.  
  
As Emma zips the suitcases up, she says softly, “It’s not for forever, you know.”  
  
The reality hits her seconds later, and she chokes back a whimper.  And Mary Margaret is looking at her in that way that makes Emma want to curl up in her mother’s arms and also run away, get in her Bug and _drive_ , until she can forget Storybrooke and a life that should have been hers and never was.  
  
“We’ll miss having you and Henry here,” Mary Margaret offers with a hesitant smile, “but that doesn’t mean we won’t still see you all the time.”  
  
“I just wish it could be simple again.”  
  
Something twists in Mary Margaret’s face, and Emma wants to take it back, but she can’t because it is true; Emma would give up her parents and everyone’s happy ending for Henry.  
  
“Oh, Emma.”  And Mary Margaret crosses the room in long strides, pulling Emma into a hug that is full of awkward elbows and a little too hard to be comfortable, but it settles that deep fear sitting in Emma’s chest, if only for a moment.  “I want to do something to help, but I can’t, and I’m so sorry.”  
  
“I have to save him,” Emma whispers as tears start to stream down her cheeks.  She’s never cried this much before, but her heart has never been this broken before.  “I have to.  I have to.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Life goes on, almost like the way it always does.  
  
If there weren’t the weekly trips to Boston, if Henry didn’t push his food around his plate and sometimes throw up the little he does eat for dinner, if Emma didn’t end every day with Regina in her study, drinking until Emma thinks she can face the next day, it would be normal.  
  
Emma would be able to believe this is something she chose, that she is building a family with Regina despite all the reasons it shouldn’t work.  
  
She pretends anyway.  Pretends for Henry and Mary Margaret and David.  For everyone in Storybrooke.  
  
Regina is the only one who sees her cry.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“We need to pull Henry out of school.”  
  
“We can’t.”  It’s a knee-jerk response, and Emma shakes her head in an attempt to find better words.  “I mean, _you’re_ the one who said we should keep his life normal.”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes and settles behind her desk.  “For as long as we can, yes.  But he’s getting too weak to handle a full school day, and until he’s stronger, it’s for the best.”  
  
“And you decided this without talking to me about it first?”  
  
“I’m talking to you about it now.”  
  
“Fuck, Regina, don’t pull that shit.  Not with Henry,” Emma says as she forces herself to stay near the window instead of leaning over Regina’s desk.  
  
Regina purses her lips and say, “Do you have another proposal, then?  Bear in mind that these treatments are making Henry very sick and weak, to the point where he barely has the energy to get of bed most days, much less attend school.”  
  
Emma knows she can’t win this argument, if only because she actually thinks Regina is right, but she also knows what this decisions means.  
  
Henry isn’t getting any better; he’s not going to get any better.  But that doesn’t mean Emma wants to give up before the fight is over.  
  
“How about he only goes for part of the day?” Emma offers quietly.  “He’ll still be able to feel sort of like a normal kid, see his friends, all of that shit.”  
  
“And when that proves too much for him?”  
  
“We’ll deal with it, then.  I just want to give him everything we can.”  Emma sits down on the edge of Regina’s desk, her thigh flush with Regina’s arm.  “We do this as a team, okay?  All of these decisions, we make them together.”  
  
Regina smiles the slightest bit, pulls Emma’s glass out of her hands, and finishes off her whiskey with one smooth swallow.  “All right.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“He’s getting worse,” Emma says quietly as she watches Regina pace the study floor.  
  
“I know,” Regina snaps back.  “What exactly do you propose we do, Miss Swan?”  
  
Emma sighs and curls her knees up closer to her chest.  “Magic.  There has to be something we can do with it.”  
  
“I’m already told you that sort of magic comes with a very high cost.”  
  
“Then we’ll pay it!”  
  
“Even if we end up lobotomizing our son?” Regina whirls to face Emma, her eyes wild.  “Are you willing to risk that to save his life?”  
  
“Are you willing to take the risk that you’re wrong?  This could be our chance, Regina, and you’re too scared to even try.”  
  
“I know better than you the consequences of using magic.  I will not harm Henry further in an effort to save him with an ill-conceived plan where we do not have a clear idea of the outcome.”  Regina wilts, her face crumpling as she stares down at Emma.  “I’ve lost so much because of magic.  Please do not make me lose Henry because of it.”  
  
Emma looks away and murmurs, “We’re losing him anyway.”  
  
“So what should we do?”  
  
“I don’t know.  I don’t think we can do anything.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
It’s snowing hard outside when Emma finds Henry curled up in his bed, a fistful of his hair clutched tightly in his hand.  
  
“It’s falling out,” he says quietly, a matter-of-fact tone to his voice that feels like a gut punch.  “I think I should shave it off.”  
  
Emma swallows hard and clears her throat.  “Okay.  I’ll talk to your mom about it.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
She snatches up his small trashcan and holds it out to him.  He lets the hair fall out of his hands; he’s even thinner now, frail little boy bones stretching his pale skin.  Putting the trashcan down, Emma crawls onto the bed beside him and wraps him up in her arms.  
  
“Do you want some hot chocolate or something?” she asks with a small smile.  
  
He wrinkles his nose.  “Maybe later?”  
  
“Not feeling so great today?”  
  
“Guess not.  Do you think you could read to me?”  
  
Emma shrugs.  “If you want.  Though, isn’t that kind of your thing with your mom?”  
  
He cuddles up closer to her and says, “Yeah, but you’re my mom, too.  Please?”  
  
Emma hopes that Regina won’t get mad later; she can still be frighteningly possessive of Henry, as if she’s afraid of the Charming family breaking down her door all over again and carting him off.  Henry’s worsening condition only compounds all of that to the point where Emma sometimes worries that they’re going to wake up to the Evil Queen all over again.  
  
But she’s not denying Henry anything he wants because every second he asks something of her, it’s another moment he’s still here.  
  
“Okay.  What’ve you been reading?”  
  
“ _The Two Towers_.  We’re going to watch the movies when we finish the trilogy.”  Henry beams at her as he pulls the book off his bedside table.  
  
She looks down at his swollen face, those bright green eyes that still light up when he sees her, and she has to force the sob sitting in her throat down, down, down until she can breathe and smile back at him as he starts catching her up on the story, his face and hands animated like they haven’t been in weeks.  
  
She doesn’t bother telling him she’s read the books and seen the movies.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Emma lets herself into the house and toes her boots off, leaving them beside the door as she moves further inside, shedding her jacket over the back of a chair.  It’s dark and quiet, and she stumbles over the mess of Henry’s half-opened birthday presents.  She hopes he’ll feel up to finish opening them tomorrow, though she and Regina will probably end up doing most of the work and letting him admire his gifts from his nest of pillows.  
  
She stands there and stares at this ridiculous pile of torn wrapping paper and boxes still untouched, physical proof of how much Henry is loved and valued and _wanted_.  There is a small part of her, a little girl who woke up to secondhand clothes on Christmas morning, that is jealous of him.  But from the way Mary Margaret and David glowed as they watched Henry earlier today, she can probably expect just as lavish a celebration.  
  
Twenty-eight years too late but so full of love that she can almost forget the loneliness of her life before, the times when surviving almost seemed too much to ask.  
  
Eventually, she makes her way to the study where she can see soft light through the cracked door, where Regina is most likely waiting up for her with a drink in hand, eyes soft and lipstick long worn off.  It’s routine, feels a little like home.  
  
So she stops short in the doorway when she sees Regina curled up on the couch, silently weeping.  
  
“What happened?” Emma asks, fear clawing up her throat because, oh God, _Henry_.  
  
Regina jerks her head up, eyes widening when she looks at Emma because she must see the terror rippling through her.  
  
“ _No_ , it’s not that.”  
  
Emma breathes, sucks in a breath and holds it and lets it out because that is what Henry is still able to do and this is okay, she can deal with this.  
  
“Then what is it?”  
  
Regina just shakes her head and stares up at her with soft, wet dark eyes, and, no, Emma didn’t sign up for this, she can’t look this hopelessness in the eye and say _we’ll make it._ Regina is the strong one, the one who tore an entire world apart and re-built it, the one with the plans and the will and the way, and Emma just isn’t.  Emma can’t be any of that.  
  
“No, you can’t do this.”  Emma crouches in front of Regina, gripping her by the knees and pleading, “Goddamnit, please, Regina, this isn’t—I can’t, just, please.”  
  
“He’s not getting any better, Emma.  He’s just not.”  Regina takes a shuddering breath and she shrinks down until she is so small, so very small that Emma holds onto her tighter.  “We’re just watching him die, and—gods, Emma, we can’t do anything about it.  I can’t—”  
  
Emma surges forward and kisses her, mumbling, “Shut up,” when she pulls back, and she presses back in, kissing Regina again and again and hating her for how she surrenders, whimpering against Emma’s mouth.  
  
Tightening her fingers on top of Regina’s knee, Emma moves until she’s pressing Regina back into the couch, hands skimming over soft skin and teeth biting down until she tastes blood and Regina moans quietly, desperately, the sound catching in her throat.  Emma pushes harder and harder, taking and damaging and _hurting_ , because she can, because she wants this, because she needs Regina to hurt as badly as she does, because she needs Regina to push back and take control.  
  
But Regina just arches up into her, legs parting easily as Emma pushes Regina’s dress up over her hips, roughly pulling her underwear off, fingers sliding through Regina’s growing dampness.  Digging her nails into the inside of Regina’s thighs, Emma settles between Regina’s legs, draping one over her shoulder, Regina’s spiky black heel scraping against her back.  
  
She works her tongue furiously, hard and fast, until Regina jerks and comes with a quiet moan that sounds like surrender, so Emma bears down more.  She slips a hand into her jeans and past her underwear, rubbing her clit as she flattens her tongue over Regina’s.  She can only hear and see and smell Regina, feel the blood throbbing thick in her veins, listen to the soft sounds Regina is making even though she is biting down on the heel of her hand.  
  
Regina comes again, thighs clenching and trembling around Emma’s head, and Emma finishes herself off in seconds, slumping against Regina’s hip before she drags herself up to see if Regina is okay.  She’s beautiful like this, mascara smeared from the tears still flowing down her cheeks, skin flushed, loose-limbed.  
  
“What about you?” Regina asks quietly.  
  
Emma grins a little sheepishly and waggles her glistening fingers as proof.  Regina frowns for a moment, then she grabs Emma’s wrist and brings Emma’s fingers to her mouth, slowly licking them clean.  Arousal rushes straight through Emma’s body, and she considers fucking Regina all over again and finding out exactly what Regina’s tongue would feel like on other parts of her body.  
  
When Regina finally releases her hand, Emma crawls up over her to kiss her again, soft and slow and deep.  Nuzzling her nose against Regina’s neck, Emma sighs; in a few minutes, things will start to get sticky and awkward, but she can’t quite convince herself to move yet.  
  
“We’re a team,” Emma says finally, her hand finding Regina’s and holding it as tight as she can.  “We made a deal, okay?  We’re doing this together, no matter what.”  
  
“No matter what,” Regina echoes, and she wraps her free arm around Emma’s waist.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“I’m glad that you’re Mom’s girlfriend.”  
  
Emma bolts upright from where she’s been stretched out beside Henry on his bed.  “Kid, it’s not…  I mean, we’re not exactly—how do you even know about that?”  
  
Henry grins, clearly pleased, and he pauses the movie they’d been watching as he says, “You guys are really obvious.  And I got Ruby to tell me, too.”  
  
“How the hell would she know?”  
  
“Maybe because she’s a werewolf?”  He rolls his eyes a little, an expression that is so purely _Regina_ on his face that Emma’s heart twists in her chest.  “But you and Mom should have told me.”  
  
She runs her hand over the peach fuzz covering his head.  “It’s complicated, Henry, and we didn’t know how you would feel about it.”  
  
“How is it complicated?  You love her, she loves you.”  
  
And this is definitely one of those times when Emma wishes Henry’s only exposure to romantic relationships wasn’t just of the “true love” variety.  She’s not exactly sure how she can explain to him that whatever she has going on with Regina is mostly about the physical part and the rest is him, not without actually _telling_ him that.  
  
“You know it’s not that easy, kid.  Look at what happened to me and your dad.”  
  
Henry frowns and shakes his head.  “But it’s _different_ with you and Mom.  I’ve _seen_ it.”  
  
Sighing, Emma says, “I know you want to think that—”  
  
“I know I’m not imagining things,” he tells her insistently.  He fixes her with those bright green eyes, and, _oh_.  “I just want you to be happy, when I’m not here anymore.”  
  
“Henry, don’t—don’t _say th_ ings like that.”  Emma can feel her throat closing up and she pushes past it to keep breathing because Henry is still breathing and that’s all that matters.  “You’ve been getting stronger the past few weeks.”  
  
“But I’m not getting any better.  It’s okay.  I’m going to be okay.”  He puts one of his hands over hers, and when did he get so big and strong and brave?  “I just want to know that you’ll be okay.  After it’s all over.”  
  
“Henry.”  
  
She clutches at his hand and tries to keep from breaking down, and he just gives her this big smile even though he’s crying now, and he’s just a boy, he’s her little boy.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Emma feels the bed dip as Regina slides under the sheets beside her.  She listens to her breathe in the darkness and waits.  
  
“Henry wants to stop his treatments.”  
  
Emma closes her eyes; she reaches out blindly for Regina’s hand and grips it tight, so very tight.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Henry does get stronger, his hair growing back in, going back to school and even building a detailed toothpick bridge with Regina’s help while Emma offers suggestions that are mostly ignored.  
  
But then it is worse than before, and Emma and Regina take up permanent residence beside his bed, their chairs placed on opposite sides.  They don’t leave for anything, not even to sleep.  
  
Emma grows used to falling asleep as Regina reads _The Return of the King_ to Henry.  She grows used to vomit on the sheets, his labored breathing, the way he hardly talks or smiles or laughs.  
  
He’s still here.  She holds onto that every single day and it’s enough.  It will always be enough.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“Emma!”  
  
Emma jerks awake, falling out of her chair and to the floor.  She blinks, drowsy in the darkness of early morning, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s Regina who screamed her name.  Who is still screaming, and no, no, no, she can’t move, can’t get up and see him lying there.  
  
But she does get up and she sees and knows, knows that her son is dead, that she is staring down at her son’s limp, dead, lifeless body.  
  
Regina turns to look at her, and her eyes, no, Emma has only seen her look like this once before and then, then, there was magic and a curse and true love’s kiss.  
  
“Emma?”  Her voice is soft, pleading, and Emma moves before she can stop herself because there is still a part of her that believes and this is her son and this is Regina and she _wants_.  
  
Emma sits down beside Henry—not his body, no, not that—and kisses his forehead gently, just like the time before, a fervent _I love you_ rushing out of her like a prayer, like a wish.  But there is no rush of magic.  
  
His eyes don’t open.  He doesn’t smile up at her.  He is just so still, so small.  
  
Emma can feel her heart beating in her chest, can hear Regina’s sobs, and the sun is rising outside.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Emma waits on the couch in Mary Margaret’s apartment, twisting her fingers in her unkempt curls.  Her black dress is wrinkled and a little too short, but Mary Margaret had promised that no one would notice.  
  
Picking at a spot on the couch where the stuffing is poking out, Emma thinks about a hole that is waiting in the ground, and she breathes and it’s wrong and it hurts.  
  
She feels Mary Margaret sit down beside her, but she doesn’t move because she has to remember to keep breathing because now Henry isn’t here anymore, because it’s over and this is all she can do.  
  
“Mom?” Emma says quietly, reaching out beside her, desperate to just _feel_.  
  
Arms wrap around her, tight and strong and full of love, and Emma stares down at the floor and takes another breath.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
“What’re you doing here?” Neal asks, leaning in the doorway of Gold’s house.  
  
Emma shrugs and takes another swig from the bottle of Jack in her hand.  “How sober are you?”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Going on a road trip.  You in?”  
  
Neal grabs the bottle and screws the top back on.  “You drove here?”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes and starts back to her car, focusing on keeping her balance even though her toes are tingling.  “Are you in or not, Neal?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m in.  We leaving right now?” He says as he slips into beaten-up tennis shoes.  
  
“Yup.  If you’re going to drive, I get the booze.”  Emma slides into the passenger seat of the Bug and curls up with her knees to her chest, pulling her unwashed hair up into a ponytail.  
  
Neal gets in the car and hands over the whiskey.  “Knock yourself out, Em.  So where are we going?”  
  
“Anywhere.”  
  
“Does anyone know that you’re just taking off?”  
  
“Nope.  And we’re not talking about it.”  
  
Emma tries to smile at Neal, fails, and she opens the Jack as they pass the town sign.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
That night, they hole up in a moderately nice hotel room, courtesy of one of Regina’s credit cards that Emma swiped, and they get very, very drunk on cheap whiskey.  
  
Neal kisses her first, but Emma lets him; they land somewhere on a bed, struggling out of their clothes.  He fucks into her with rough thrusts, his face buried into her neck, and she pulls him closer and closer even as she thinks of soft skin and full lips and wide dark eyes.  
  
“We can start over.  Make another kid, do it right,” he mumbles as he ruts inside her.  
  
She presses her fingers against her clit, comes with a soft sigh, and maybe, _maybe_.  
  
In the morning, she pukes into the toilet and goes to the drugstore to get some aspirin and emergency contraception.  Neal watches as she swallows the pills, and she shakes her head.  
  
“It’s not going to happen, Neal,” she says quietly.  “I’m done.”  
  
  
*****  
  
  
They stay in Boston for six months, bouncing around hotels and bars, fucking strangers and working odd jobs when they’re bored.  
  
Neal eventually finds a girl and moves on; Emma continues on with the way things are, drinking alone in her hotel room and ignoring phone calls from her parents.  
  
It’s been eight months when she climbs into her Bug and drives back to Storybrooke.  
  
  
*****  
  
  
Emma makes her way through the graveyard to where Regina is standing in front of a single headstone.  She pulls her jacket tighter around her body and kicks up some leaves.  
  
“Hey,” she says quietly, scuffing the toe of her boot against the grass.  
  
Regina doesn’t turn to look at her, just stiffens her spine.  “You came back.”  
  
“Yeah.  I did.”  Emma grimaces and stares at stark letters cut into marble.  “Neal stayed in Boston.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Sighing, Emma rocks back on her heels and studies Regina quietly, taking in the shadows under her eyes and the sharp angles of her face and body.  She edges closer to Regina and takes her hand.  
  
“I missed you,” Emma murmurs.  
  
Regina curls her fingers around Emma’s.  “Are you going to stay?”  
  
“Yeah, I am.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Okay.”


End file.
